


Redivivus, Chapter Three

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e22 What Kind of Day Has It Been, Episode: s02e01 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part I, Episode: s02e02 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-09
Updated: 2009-01-09
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The concluding part of my short series giving some of the back story to my Carpe Diem series. Josh's recovery is seen from the point of view of those close to him.





	Redivivus, Chapter Three

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

  
Author's notes: Title: Redivivus Part Three  
Author: Sue C  
Spoilers: What Kind of Day Has it Been; In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Parts I and II  
Pairing: Josh/Sam  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: My two favorite boys, plus the other well known protagonists, belong to Aaron Sorkin/Warner Bros. Head Nurse Santini, Nurse Julie Delaney and Jane Lyman are my own creations  
Summary: This is set within my Carpe Diem A/U, and is something I have been playing with in my head for quite a while. It is essentially the back story to Carpe Diem 1 seen from the pov of a number of different people who have been touched, either directly or indirectly, by the events at Rosslyn. Should you wish to remind yourself of the events of Carpe Diem 1, it can be read at http://national-library.net. Grateful thanks go to my dear friend Kathi for encouraging me to embark on this new chapter, and also for providing me with some of the ideas contained within it.  
Notes: Redivivus means "come back to life". The National Rehabilitation Center at Washington DC is a real facility and I took the information on its aims and program from its website. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are my own  
Archive: As above; anywhere else, you're more than welcome - just let me know  
Feedback: This is a slight departure from my linear Carpe Diem timeline, so I'm interested in what people think of it. Any feedback is gratefully received as long as it's constructive.  


* * *

REDIVIVUS CHAPTER THREE

 

I am a doctor by profession, currently residing for the most part in Washington DC. I am also the mother of three daughters who I would like to spend more time with, but my current role in life prevents this. No, it’s not what you may be thinking, that my dedication to medicine takes priority over my familial obligations. It’s another, quite different responsibility that finds me standing here in an aircraft taking me out of the United States towards Europe rather than relaxing at home after a long day in the OR of a large teaching hospital.

 

“Abby? You there?”

 

Oh, and that’s my husband, who just happens to be the President of the United States of America. So yes, as well as being a wife, mother and doctor I’m also First Lady to Jed Bartlet.

 

“I’ll be right out.” 

 

I look at myself in the mirror as I cleanse off the last of the day’s make up, removing my earrings as I move from the bathroom into the bedroom of Airforce One’s presidential suite. I kick off my shoes, glad of the opportunity to change from the formal clothes I’ve been wearing since seven o’clock this morning. Grabbing a sweater and jeans, I dress rapidly before joining my husband in the small lounge that serves as both sitting room and dining room on our trips around the US and further afield.

 

“Hey.” My husband pecks me on my upturned cheek. “How was Texas?”

 

“Big,” I reply. 

 

I’ve spent the last two days in the Lone Star State, flew from there to Andrews to find Jed already in conference on the plane with Toby and CJ prior to taking off on a journey that will take us to Brussels then subsequently to London for a summit with European leaders. This is the first chance we’ve had to catch up.

 

“Did you order dinner?” Jed asks as he sits down.

 

“Mm-hm.” I move over to the drinks tray, holding up a glass questioningly. Jed smiles appreciatively as I mix our drinks: bourbon on the rocks for him, a gin and tonic for me. “Consomme, pasta and fruit to finish.”

 

He puts down the papers he’s perusing. “You’ve spent the last two days in the company of ranchers and cattle drovers. Surely the least you can do is offer your husband a prime beefsteak?”

 

“In the last forty-eight hours I’ve visited two hospitals, a well woman clinic and a school. This afternoon I attended a luncheon in my honor at the Association of Southern States Businesswomen, of whom a small fraction is in the business of raising beef. The rest work in, among other things, real estate, IT, the service industries and tourism. I did not, to my knowledge, meet any cattle drovers.”

 

I flop down into my chair and take a long, welcome gulp of my gin and tonic.

 

“Even so ... consommé, pasta, *fruit*.”

 

“Jed, over the next two days you’ll be wining and dining on the best cuisine Europe has to offer. You’ll attend a state dinner at Buckingham Palace, and although I know Queen Elizabeth is very mindful of her own diet, I’m sure her chef will want to impress you. So on this leg of the journey at least you’ll eat something plain that isn’t full of cholesterol.”

 

“Whatever you say, dear.”

 

I stare at him. He’s given up the fight far too easily. He seems distracted, but I figure he’ll tell me soon enough, so we sit in silence for a while just sipping our drinks. One, two, three ... off come the spectacles, the papers are dropped on the table, and ... 

 

“Before I left the White House this afternoon, Leo apprised me of a ... a *situation*.”

 

I raise my eyebrows.

 

“Is this something I should know about?” I ask.

 

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, turning his spectacles over and over in his hands.

 

“He wanted to tell me about two members of staff who’ve just come out,” he finally says.

 

“You mean they’re gay?” I ask. I shrug my shoulders. “So? Considering the number of people who work in the White House this is surprising? Are they independently gay or are they a couple?”

 

“Oh, they’re most definitely a couple,” comes the answer.

 

“Well, I know relationships between people in the same work area are frowned upon, but why don’t they just move one of them into another part of the White House, or to another department of government?”

 

“Abby, we’re not talking about two people who work in the mailroom.” 

 

Now I know this is more serious. Jed’s looking pretty concerned.

 

“Why is Leo involved? Surely it’s the job of their supervisor to deal with it? And why do you need to know?”

 

There’s a long silence.

 

“We’re not just talking two junior staffers,” my husband explains.

 

Now I know why it concerns him and Leo. “More senior than that?”

 

He nods.

 

“Male or female?” Already my mind is working overtime.

 

“Male.” He leans back, picks up his drink and swirls the bourbon around. He falls silent, and I’m wondering why he can’t just tell me outright. It dawns on me that maybe I know these people personally, that they’re not just two members of the White House staff that I know by sight, or even just by name but little else.

 

“Jed!” I make my tone more emphatic so he knows I mean business. I *refuse* to play twenty questions. The plane’s engine thrums, its tone changing slightly as it climbs higher into the indigo sky. The sound cocoons us: just me, my husband and this secret information he’s holding to himself.

 

Finally, “It’s Josh and Sam.”

 

It takes me a second to absorb the names. “*Our* Josh and Sam? As in Josh Lyman and Sam Seaborn?”

 

He smiles slightly. “Do we have any other members of the senior staff called Josh and Sam?”

 

I’m stunned. I knew they were best friends, sharing that special affection some men are lucky enough to find. To me they’d always seemed like a younger Jed and Leo, so much so that I imagined their own career tracks mirroring those of my husband and his closest friend and adviser. Would that happen now, I wonder. A gay President and his Chief of Staff sharing a bed in the Residence? 

 

So, Josh and Sam - gay? I thought I knew them well enough that I’d have been able to see if the affection between them went beyond the platonic. I don’t know what behavior I would have expected from them, but at the very least I would have thought it would have become obvious if two members of staff - heterosexual *or* homosexual - were involved in an intimate relationship. Unless ...

 

“I’m assuming this has happened since Rosslyn?”

 

That would explain what I found unbelievable, the fact that they could have kept this concealed. For myself I hadn’t seen either of them together since that awful night, and many times Sam had visited Josh without anyone else accompanying him. So it’s not inconceivable that no one would know that their friendship had developed into ... well, *romantic* love for the want of a better term.

 

My God, I can’t believe I’m thinking about Josh and Sam as romantically involved. 

 

“You’re not going to believe this, but they’ve been together since the campaign,” Jed replies.

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

I cast my mind back to those early days when Leo introduced me to the clever, brash young man with the devastating smile. I remember thinking the female campaign workers would be fighting over him. Then a couple of days later Josh went to New York and came back accompanied by this extraordinary creature who was, by all accounts, beautiful *and* brilliant. And I recalled how they were together, but at the time the energy and obvious affection between them seemed to come from the heady excitement of two friends working on the campaign trail. Now I know it wasn’t just that. We were witnessing the start of a love affair.

 

But it had turned out to be more than that, something much more real and enduring. I begin thinking of that awful night after the shooting, how it must have been for Josh to lie there, injured and scared, knowing the person he loved couldn’t be with him, comforting him. Then there was Sam, writing press briefings and doing the morning shows, all the while aching to be at Josh’s bedside. Agonizing doesn’t even begin to cover it. I know how I felt when Jed was in surgery, and at least I didn’t have to pretend he was my best friend and nothing more than that.

 

“Abby?” 

 

Jed’s voice interrupts my train of thought.

 

“I’m just ... surprised ... no, amazed,“ I reply. “And no one knew?” 

 

I still can’t quite believe it, but in amongst this feeling of wonder is a growing sense of being happy and thankful that Josh and Sam - especially Josh - have managed, through all the recent trauma, to hang onto something so precious.

 

“CJ worked it out, but only recently. She’d discussed it with Sam only last night. And apparently something happened at the hospital. Remember that young nurse we met?”

 

“Julie?” I prompt. 

 

How could I forget her. She’d obviously made an impression on Josh, and I could see how much she’d helped him. I can recognize a damned good nurse when I see one.

 

“Well, she walked in on them and saw them ... “ Jed stops, looking a little uncomfortable.

 

“What? Kissing?” I suggest dryly, because I’m certain neither Josh nor Sam would indulge in anything more compromising in the hospital.

 

“Yeah. They’d already decided to tell Leo at some stage. Josh being shot, disabled ... their whole lives have been turned upside down. I guess in the scheme of things telling your boss you’re gay rates somewhere down the scale of life events compared to a near death experience. They felt they couldn’t keep it secret any longer. Julie seeing them was just the catalyst. They met with Leo and Toby this morning, told them everything and offered their resignations.”

 

He looks at me, gauging my reaction. I’m appalled at the mention of them resigning. Apart from the injustice of it all, it would be such a wicked waste of talent.

 

“He didn’t accept them?” I ask.

 

“No, no, of course not,” he reassures me quickly.

 

“How was Josh? Did Leo say?” is my next question.

 

“He looked exhausted, but seemed better when Leo said he’d do all he could to ensure they kept their jobs.”

 

“Because we’re going to have to be very careful with Josh. Physically he’s doing well, and mentally he’s got a lot of inner strength, but he’s still emotionally fragile. I don’t want anyone doing or saying anything that will jeopardize his recovery.”

 

Jed looks at me, something like exasperation in the expression he’s wearing.

 

“What? Do you think I’m going to fire them just like that?” He clicks his fingers. “That I’ll throw them to the wolves of the media and the Christian right?”

 

“Jed,” I sigh. “You’re a politician. Leo’s a politician. What was it he said? ‘He’d do all he could to ensure they kept their jobs?’ What he meant was he couldn’t give them any cast iron promises. And what if they do keep their jobs? Does that mean the end of Sam and Josh as a couple? Because *I* wouldn’t want to be responsible for the consequences. Right now, Josh needs to know he’s still got his career, but most importantly if Sam is committed to him, especially now that Josh has medical issues, he needs to be sure *that’s* not going to change either.”

 

“Okay, calm down, Dr Bartlet,” he teases me gently. “But as a politician’s wife you’ll appreciate we’ve got to be careful the way we manage this. We have two of the President’s senior advisers in a relationship which will play very badly with some sections of the electorate, not to mention the fact that workplace relationships always cause press interest.”

 

That calms me somewhat, and I feel a tad chastened that I jumped to the conclusion that my husband would put political expediency above all else. I’m experienced enough to know that at this highest level of politics the good of the nation and the administration will always take precedence, but I know my husband well enough to realize that the loyalty and regard his staff show him will always factor into any decisions of this kind. I get up, moving over to perch on the arm of Jed’s chair and lay my hand on his shoulder.

 

“You’ll work it out. You’ll do what’s right, or you’ll have *me* to answer to.”

 

He chuckles in that way he does when he feels pleased with himself, that he’s managed to be the politician *and* placate his troublesome wife. I decide to stop it degenerating into smugness for the rest of the evening.

 

“You’ve got to admit, they *do* make a lovely couple.”

 

Jed squirms a little uncomfortably.

 

“They do! Josh with that smile and those dimples, and Sam with those baby blues,” I say, teasing him some more. “What does Leo think?”

 

“Abby!” He jumps up, trying to cause a distraction by pouring another drink.

 

“What?” I reply innocently.

 

He turns round, decanter in hand.

 

“Leo and I are from a different generation.” He finishes pouring his drink, walking slowly back to his chair. “We don’t ... disapprove or find it morally reprehensible, but when two men that you’ve always assumed would one day settle down, start a family ... guys you’ve spent time with ... “

 

“What you mean, Jed, is that they don’t conform to any stereotypes. These are the guys you’ve engaged with in manly pursuits - shooting hoops, playing poker, drinking beer ... “ I shake my head and laugh. “It’s not surprising it shakes your secure little universe.”

 

“Abby, when I was a young man homosexuality was illegal. Gay men didn’t advertise the fact.”

 

Jed stares into his drink. I know what he’s remembering.

 

“You’re thinking about Jack Miller, aren’t you?” I ask gently.

 

He nods, sighing. 

 

Jack Miller graduated with Jed. They’d been friends in college, and like Jed and myself married soon after graduation. We kept in touch, even spending a couple of holidays together in Yosemite. Jack and his wife Avril seemed made for each other. Theirs wasn’t a tempestuous relationship like mine and Jed’s, and when their daughter Katy was born everything seemed perfect. Until Jack was arrested for soliciting a young man in the men’s room of a bar when on a business trip. It was when he was released on bail waiting for a trial date that he sat in his locked car in his garage and was found dead as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. Jed was devastated, and confided in me that while at college Jack had struggled with his sexuality. When he married it seemed as if he’d resolved any ambivalence he’d had. Subsequent events had shown the turmoil and conflict that he’d been carrying around with him until his attempts to conform with social and legal conventions had resulted in tragedy for all involved.

 

“I’ve always thought I could have done more to help. I knew something of what he was going through when we were at Notre Dame but ... “

 

“Jed.” I lean forward and force him to look into my eyes. “You were young and inexperienced yourself. You’d grown up as the son of a man whose life was defined by his moral certainties. Like you say, times were different then. But now ... now you’ve got a chance to make sure two young men don’t suffer needlessly. At least this time the law’s on their side.”

 

He gives me a smile. It’s tight with regret for what might have been.

 

“It’s the social and political values I’ve got to deal with. I don’t want to mess this up. God, Abby, I want to protect them,” he says intensely. “This must be how any loving parent feels when they find out their son or daughter is gay.”

I take hold of his hand.

 

“It’ll be fine,” I reassure him, because I know it will. 

 

He squeezes my hand and his face relaxes. Before we can discuss it any further there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Yes?” Jed calls out.

 

A steward enters.

 

“Shall I serve dinner, Mr President? Ma’am?”

 

Jed raises an eyebrow. “Please. I really don’t think I can wait any longer to sample the delights of the consomme and pasta that my wife has ordered.”

 

I wait until the steward has left before I swat his arm.

 

“I want to avoid inflicting anymore pain on either of them,” he continues, picking up the conversation. “Make sure they keep their jobs *and* stay together without the Republicans and the Christian Right thinking all their Christmases have come at once. You know how much pleasure they’ll take in denouncing the so-called degenerate Bartlet administration.”

 

“Well, anything that gives Mary Marsh and her cohorts collective apoplexy has got to be a good thing,” I laugh. “When will you speak to Josh and Sam?”

 

“Not until I get back to Washington. This is too important to talk about over the phone. This is two people‘s happiness at stake.”

 

He picks up the papers he was reading earlier. The discussion is at an end. But there’s one more thing I need to say.

 

“Jed?”

 

“Mmm?” He looks at me over his glasses.

 

“When you see them .... tell them congratulations from me.”

 

***

I am the mother of the Deputy Chief of Staff to the White House. I know all mothers are proud of their children, but I make no apologies for the fact that I almost burst with pride the day I saw my son take his place with the rest of the senior staff behind the newly inaugurated President. The fact that Joshua has been an only child since his sister died only intensifies the strength of my feelings. He‘s the most precious thing in my life. 

 

Six months ago that almost changed irrevocably when a young man, his mind twisted with bigotry and an obscene ideology, pulled the trigger of a gun. I was watching a film on TV when it was interrupted by a news report saying the President had been shot, but I didn’t know Josh was involved until the phone call came from Leo. My son, in the wrong place at the wrong time, had been hit in the chest. Before I’d had time to fully comprehend the news there was a police squad car at my door to take me to the airport, where a hastily chartered plane waited to take me to Washington DC. When I arrived at the hospital I didn’t know whether Josh would live or die, and for the next few hours neither did anyone else. But after lengthy surgery and numerous pints of blood the medical team was able to confirm that barring complications he would survive. 

 

For forty-eight hours Josh drifted in and out of consciousness, sedation and painkillers giving his body the rest it needed to withstand the combined assault of bullet and scalpel. Finally fully conscious, he demanded to know the details of the shooting and his condition. So the doctors explained how close he’d come to dying but that they’d repaired his pulmonary artery and his lung and they were confident he’d make a full recovery from those injuries. I sat there with the cardio-vascular surgeon and watched Josh smile and thank him, only to feel my heart break as I watched the expression on his face move from relief to despair as the neurologist explained that Josh had also sustained a spinal injury. Truth to tell, he’d already guessed something of this nature had happened. As he remarked to me some weeks later, the fact that he couldn’t feel his legs gave him a pretty big clue. But until the doctor confirmed it, I think he was able to convince himself that it was a temporary consequence of being shot. As the doctor finished giving his prognosis I expected Josh to cry, but he just turned his face away and asked if we would leave him alone. And in all the time I’ve been visiting him at GW and later the rehabilitation hospital I’ve not seen him cry once.

 

After those first few days in the hospital I thought I would never experience anything as bad again. That is, until the week after the shooting when his doctor came into Josh’s room and told him it was time they got him out of bed and into a wheelchair. I saw the fear on Josh’s face at the mere thought of moving from his bed. I know my son well enough to deduce that it wasn’t just the prospect of the pain that worried him but the fact that he couldn’t do this without help. So I left the room, knowing he didn’t want me to witness him being lifted from the bed into a wheelchair. I know enough about hospital procedures to understand they can leave people with a sense that they’ve lost any dignity they may have possessed. I didn’t want to compound Josh’s misery. I can’t describe my own emotions when I returned to his room and it was finally brought home to me that this was they way he would spend the rest of his life. I sat down next to him and touched his hand. I opened my mouth to speak - God knows what I intended to say - but before I could frame the words he stopped me. 

 

“Don’t say anything, mom, just don’t say anything.”

 

We sat in silence for an hour until he suggested I go back to his townhouse. I guess that was the worst day since the actual shooting. By the time Josh moved to the NRH he’d grown a little more talkative. After a week there I could see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

 

The unexpected benefit of Josh being hospitalized is that I’ve been able to spend more time with him than ever before in the course of his adult life. His career has been everything, from interning during college vacations to jobs in Congress to finally achieving his ultimate goal of working in the White House. But I was lucky if I saw him twice a year, and he was never very good at keeping in touch by telephone. So it makes me feel a little guilty, but the fact is that there have been times when I’ve enjoyed this time together. What sort of mother are you, I can hear you ask. Well, the sort of mother who’d wished she’d taken the bullet instead of her son, but also the sort of mother who’s glad he’s survived with all his mental faculties intact. And the sort of mother who’s making the best of a bad job by making up for some lost time together. Yes, I hate that he now has to use a wheelchair, but when I think of the alternative ...

 

So by the time Josh had been in the rehabilitation hospital for six months I could see the progress he was making. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Sessions with his therapist and the support of Julie, his nurse, had worked wonders. But he continued to avoid discussing any definite plans for when he would leave the NRH. So last week when he told me that he’d decided to go on an outing with Sam I was delighted because I knew how he’d once dreaded making that first foray out of the hospital. 

 

That’s when everything went wrong between us. The day before his trip out he was in a strange mood. Or should I say moods. One minute he was happy and excited, the next nervy and tense. And all I said to him was to make sure he took his jacket in case the weather changed and would he tell Sam if he got too tired. That’s when he turned on me, telling me that even though he was sitting in a wheelchair it didn’t mean I could have my little boy back. I tried explaining that that wasn’t my intention, but he wouldn’t listen. 

 

“You can’t treat me as if I’m still eight years old,” he flung back at me.

 

That hurt. I’ve tried to tell myself that he didn’t mean it, that being disabled has been a threat to his life, his career, to the way he sees himself as a man. But I don’t mind admitting that as I packed my clothes and phoned the airline I couldn’t see too well for the tears blurring my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to call him, fearful that he would think I was being even more over-protective. So I tried to keep myself busy in Connecticut, visiting friends and relatives that I’ve neglected over the last few months, tending to my garden and even doing a little sketching. But all the while I was worrying that his loss of temper was an indication of something more deep-seated. Despite the fact that he’d been doing so well the past few weeks I’d learnt enough about recovery from trauma to know that setbacks weren’t uncommon. Then yesterday evening the phone rang. It was Josh, very contrite, asking if I’d fly down to Washington DC as soon as I could. He had something to tell me that he wanted to do face to face, and no, it wasn’t bad news but he’d rather not go into the details over the phone. As I replaced the receiver, once again my vision was blurred, but this time it was with tears of relief.

 

So now I’m back in DC. As the cab draws up outside the hospital, I can feel myself almost bursting with curiosity, in contrast to the ride from the airport when all I could feel was anxiety at seeing Josh for the first time since we’d argued. But stopping briefly at his townhouse to drop off my bags I saw the most wonderful bouquet had been placed in the living room. I smiled, all my worries dispelled, imagining Josh dispatching Donna to the florist to buy it. There was a card tucked in amongst the blooms. ’Welcome back. Love, Joshua.’ 

 

The NRH looks as familiar and as busy as ever. I pay the cab driver and as I walk to the entrance I’m swept along with a doctor and a gaggle of students which prevents me from seeing ahead of me into the lobby. 

 

“Mom!”

 

I look around at the sound of the familiar voice, eventually locating Josh where he’s waiting by the reception desk. 

 

“Hi, sweetheart.” I bend down to kiss his cheek, and as I straighten up I take a good look at my son.

 

He looks wonderful. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a dark green sweater that does wonders for his hair and eyes. There’s a spark to him and a vitality that I haven’t seen for a long time. He looks ... happy. Content. I can hardly speak I feel so thankful.

 

“You look so well,” I finally manage.

 

“How are you, mom?” he asks, his voice soft, his face concerned.

 

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

“I’m sorry about ... everything,” Josh says in a low voice.

 

“Shh. It’s okay. I just want to hear all your news.” There are people milling around us. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to go somewhere more quiet?”

 

Back comes the smile. 

 

“You want to get coffee?” he asks.

 

“Joshua! Stop stalling. I want to hear your news!”

 

“Okay, okay. Come on.”

 

He leads the way to the elevators. As I walk alongside him I have the same thought as always: how strange it is to look down at my son who once towered over me. I’m only just five feet tall, and since Josh was an adolescent I was accustomed to looking up at him as he stood next to me. No matter how much I learn to accept that Josh is a paraplegic, I don’t think I’ll ever become accustomed to this particular reversal in our circumstances. 

 

As we make our way to his room he begins to tell me about the visits he’s made to the White House and that in a couple of weeks he’ll return to work. I bite my tongue to stop myself suggesting that maybe it would be a good idea if he worked part time for the first few months, but he sets my mind at rest when he tells me that initially he’ll only work three days a week. 

 

“In which you’ll try to cram the equivalent of your usual eighteen-hour days that invariably include weekends,” I can’t help pointing out. 

 

So sue me - I’m his mother.

 

I steal a look at him, waiting for the inevitable. But instead, one raised eyebrow is the only indication that he feels I’m nagging him.

 

“I’ve agreed to half days for the first week, then I’ll build up my hours gradually,” he says.

 

“Good - I guess Donna will keep you to that,” I reply as we go into his room. 

 

And I’ll have a word with Leo too, I tell myself.

 

“Don’t worry. Donna’s not the only one who’ll make sure I behave myself,” he says cryptically. “Anyway - my work regime isn’t what I wanted to discuss.”

 

I sit down in the chair next to Josh’s bed. He positions his wheelchair in front of me and leans forward. His face has suddenly assumed a serious expression, thoughtful even. He takes a deep breath and looks down.

 

“I’m so, so sorry about last week,” he begins.

 

“Josh, it doesn’t matter. You’ve already apologized ... “

 

“Just ... just let me finish,” he interrupts. He looks up at me with those expressive brown eyes. “The reason I behaved so badly is connected to what I want to tell you. What I *need* to tell you.”

 

There’s an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of my stomach. “Josh, I know you said it was good news, but ... “ 

 

“It *is* good news. At least, *I* think it’s good news, and I hope you do too. I just need to say it without being interrupted, okay?”

 

I nod because I can see this is difficult for Josh. I’ve never been good at listening without responding, but I know I’ve got to make the effort so Josh can get through this. He opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it.

 

“Josh?” I prompt, trying to sound encouraging and not impatient. Patience is *not* my strong suit - that’s most definitely a trait my son has inherited - but I’m trying hard not to rush things.

 

“Did you ever wish I’d got married, had a family?” he asks suddenly, taking me by surprise. It seems he’s decided against one-way communication.

 

I think about it for a couple of seconds. “Well, I won’t pretend it wouldn’t have been good to see you settled, and maybe give me a grandchild or two. But it’s *your* life, Josh. I’ve tried not to be one of those mothers who wants to map their children’s ... child’s ... life out for him. Even if I’d wanted to there wasn’t much chance of that, even when you were a child I could see where you were headed.”

 

“You could?” he asks, his face questioning, amused.

 

“Do you remember all those years ago Leo coming round to our house and arguing politics with your father?” I ask.

 

“It’s one of my earliest memories,“ he smiles. 

 

“When you were very young you’d be under their feet, chattering and playing, then as you got older and started to take an interest in current affairs I used to swear that you’d absorbed their passion for politics, like it was through some kind of osmosis. By the time you were fourteen you were organizing mock elections at school and I just knew where your career would take you. You’re so single minded Josh - I think it would have been impossible for you to give everything to your career *and* a wife and family. And because you like to do things wholeheartedly you made a choice. But ...”

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“There are times when I would have liked you to have someone by your side to share your successes. And some of the not so good times. Like your dad and I did.”

 

We share a quiet moment, and I guess we’re both thinking about Noah and how he’d always given Josh his full support in everything he did.

 

“Your father would have been so proud Josh, to see you and Leo together, both working for a man like President Bartlet. But what the heck - I can be proud for both of us!” I stop, not quite seeing where all of this is going. “But you know that anyway. Now - are you going to tell me your news?”

 

“Okay.” He takes a breath but his breathing sounds a little shallow and I can see his hands are shaking.

 

“Josh,” I say anxiously, touching his hand, “you’re working yourself into a state. Calm down. Please.”

 

“I’m fine.” He closes his eyes momentarily, then fixes me with a direct look. “What would you say if I told you I *do* have someone by my side? Someone to share things with. That there’s someone ... someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

 

I can see him swallow hard as he waits for my answer. How could he think I’d be anything less than delighted? But I should know better. My son still surprises me with these unexpected displays of insecurity, which I attribute to the childhood experience of running out of a burning house sure that his always protective older sister would be following closely behind. At a painfully young age Josh learned that there are no certainties in life. But if he’s met someone who’s made him happy, then I’m happy too. Of that he can be certain. I put my hand out to touch his cheek.

 

“Oh. Oh, honey. That’s so wonderful ... “

 

“Wait,” he interjects. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

 

He fidgets a little, running his hand through his hair causing it to look more than a little disheveled.

 

“Go on, I’m listening,” I prompt.

 

“The person I’m with ... it’s ... he’s ... a man. I know it’s not what you expected to hear ... hell, it’s probably not what you *hoped* to hear. Mom, please, try to understand ... I’m happier than I’ve been for years.”

 

Oh Joshua, I think, this is what you were so scared to tell me. How did you think I’d react? With anger? Disgust? True, there’s a mix of emotions churning around inside me, but none that result from revulsion at my son‘s sexuality. There’s happiness because Josh has found someone to love. Sadness that he felt he couldn’t tell me until now. Curiosity as to who the man is who seems to have made such a difference to his life. And now I can feel the tears coming, so I pull my hand from his grasp and search around in my purse for a handkerchief.

 

“I’m sorry,” I can hear Josh saying. “I’m sorry it’s been such a shock, I’m sorry it’s maybe not what you wanted ... “

 

I finally manage to locate a handkerchief, attempting to stem my tears without dislodging my mascara.

 

“Joshua, don’t you *dare* apologize for who or what you are,” I sniff. I squeeze his hand and look at my beautiful son.

 

Because the truth is that ever since he graduated from high school I’ve wondered. I’ve never been sure, because he brought girls to our home but they always seemed more like friends with whom he could joke and debate than be romantically involved. When he went out with girls it was usually in a gang of both sexes. But there was nothing to suggest that his sexual preference was towards men. Then as it became clear politics was his life I decided that maybe his single mindedness meant there was no room for a career *and* a relationship. But still, from time to time I wondered.

 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask. 

 

He frowns, shifting his gaze downwards. “Because there’s one thing talking the liberal talk and another thing accepting that your son is gay. See, I’ve always known and ... I ... I had a couple of relationships at Harvard, but as my career took off, I didn’t want to jeopardize that. Even in the late twentieth century you wouldn’t believe what a conservative place even the Democratic Party can be. So I thought why tell you and dad when I was essentially ... well, for the want of a better word, celibate.”

 

“It must have been lonely.” Oh, God, my tears are starting again. Get a grip, woman, I tell myself.

 

“Uh-huh. Just a little.” Josh bites his lower lip and I can tell he’s struggling to control his own tears.

 

I stand up and move over to his side, leaning over him so that I can get my arms around him. He turns his face into the crook of my elbow as a sob escapes. 

 

“Shh, sweetheart. I’m here. Everything’s fine.”

 

We’re both crying now, hanging onto one another until we calm ourselves. Josh pulls away from me, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes.

 

“I’m ... sorry.” One final sob causes his breath to hitch.

 

I go over to his nightstand and bring back some tissues. He dries his eyes and blows his nose as I resume my seat opposite him. I feel we both needed that outlet, and I suddenly realize that it’s the first time I’ve seen him shed tears since the shooting. Although it was ostensibly as a result of today’s revelation, I think it was also a mutual purging of the emotion that we’d both been concealing from one another all these months.

 

“I think we both needed that,” I answer.

 

“I guess,” he laughs shakily.

 

“So,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Are you going to tell me who this man is who makes you so happy?”

 

He smiles, such a sweet smile full of joy at the thought.

 

“It’s Sam. Sam Seaborn.”

 

“Yes, of course it is,” I reply.

 

He gives me a curious look. “You sound as if you were expecting that.”

 

Now I can tell him about what I suspected some time ago.

 

“Do you remember the holiday before the inauguration? When Sam turned up unexpectedly and stayed over?”

“Of course I do. I was sorting out dad’s papers. It was just after Chanukah. You mean you knew then?” The pitch of his voice rises with surprise. “We didn’t do or say anything ... we were so careful ... “

 

“There was something about the way you two were together. So easy, so affectionate. Little things like the way you’d finish one another’s sentences. The way I caught you looking at one another when we stood outside listening to the carol singers. I didn’t know for sure but I wondered. And you know something?”

 

He shakes his head. I think for once I’ve rendered my garrulous son speechless.

 

“I thought if that man made you happy and contented, then that would be good enough for me. And it still is. In fact, it’s more than good enough. If Sam Seaborn can love and care for my son and make him smile the way you’re smiling now, then that’s all I can ask.”

 

At last Josh finds his voice. “He does. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. He’s taking on so much more now ... a partner who’s disabled ... it’s not going to be easy ... That‘s why I was so horrible last week. That afternoon away from here was the first time we’d been able to ... well ....”

 

Josh’s voice tails off and I know there are things he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with his mother. I raise an eyebrow, my reply deliberately imbued with irony to dispel his acute embarrassment.

 

“Spend some quality time together?”

 

“Yeah.” Josh looks relieved, as if I’d thrown him a lifeline.

 

“He’s a splendid man, Josh. We’ve always known that. And he’s lucky to have found you.”

 

“I can’t believe you worked it out!” he says in disbelief. 

 

“Maybe it was the situation ... going through your dad’s things, Sam turning up so suddenly, the reaction after the election. Maybe because you were in your own home you’d let your guard down a little.” I hesitate a little, knowing there’s a subject I want to broach. No, *have* to broach. “Josh, can I ask you something?”

 

“Sure,” he says.

 

I pause to gather my thoughts. I hate to ask this question, but the fact is on two occasions I’ve come close to losing Josh forever. And I know that his medical history now means that there may be related health issues that arise in the future, and that there’ll be no choice but to deal with them. But I have to know that he hasn’t put himself at any other risk over the years to compound the concerns that I try so hard to keep at a manageable level.

 

“You and Sam ... you have been careful, haven’t you?”

 

Thankfully he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

 

“God yes, yes. We both got tested when ... well, when he joined the campaign. And there hasn’t been anyone else since for either of us. There’s nothing for you to worry about, honestly. But what I *do* have to tell you, and I hope you won‘t be angry ...” 

 

There he goes with the pausing again. Surely he’s gotten over the most difficult part.

 

“What is it, Josh?”

 

“I’m sorry but ... Sam and I have had to tell some people ahead of you. Things were kind of taken out of our hands last week.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He sits back and throws his hands in the air. “I knew it! I *knew* you’d be hurt that I hadn’t told you first.”

“I’m not, Josh, really I’m not.”

 

But you want the truth? I am, maybe just a little. I’d hate to come over as one of those clinging, possessive mothers, but I have to admit I got a little pang when Josh said I wasn’t the first to know. And it’s not like it was just one other person. He said ‘people’. And Josh knows how I feel, because he’s looking at me under his brows in that skeptical way of his.

 

“Hey, never kid a kidder,” he says, a slight laugh weaving itself in between the words.

 

“Okay.” I finally give way. “It’s a little ... difficult ... being the last to know.”

 

“Well we haven’t taken out a full-page announcement in the Post. It’s still only a select few we’ve told.”

 

“So why now, Josh? What happened.”

 

So he tells me all about Julie seeing him with Sam, although he’s a little hazy on the details, bashful even, which is *so* not Josh. I hear about CJ working it out, which doesn’t surprise me - she’s one smart cookie, that girl. As I listen I try to imagine what it must have been like telling Leo and Toby, and I cry a little more when he tells me about his and Sam’s meeting with the President. And even though he said it’s only a ‘select few’ who know, there’s the little matter of him announcing it in the middle of the bullpen.

 

“And that’s it,” he concludes. “Now you know everything.”

 

“Yes, now I know everything.”

 

He leans over and covers my hand in both of his, tilting his head to one side. It’s a habit he’s had since he was a little boy; it’s the mannerism he lapses into when he wants reassurance. 

 

“You’re really okay with this?” he enquires.

 

I answer his question with another. “How can I not be if Sam can make you look the way you do now?”

 

“If someone had told me a couple of months ago that I’d feel as happy as I do now, I’d never have believed them.” Despite the statement, his voice sounds a little tremulous.

 

“Than that’s all I need to know,” I reply.

 

We seem to have run out of words; we both seem to feel a little awkward now the initial high emotions have been spent, as if we need to make the transition into talking about more everyday matters but are unsure how to do it. Then suddenly Josh breaks the silence, and the atmosphere shifts.

 

“I’m going with Sam to look at a couple of apartments on Saturday. Will you come?”

 

“Oh, no, no, Josh,” I decline hastily. “It should just be the two of you. You don’t want me tagging along.”

 

“Yes, we do! We can take you to lunch.” He puts on a wheedling tone. “It’s Sam’s idea. Come on - say you will.”

 

How can I resist? 

 

“Then I’d love to,” I reply. 

 

“Good. It’s a date.”

 

Josh moves away to wheel over to the table that’s been set up under the window. There’s a laptop on it and several files, so it looks as if he’s already started in on White House business prior to his return to work. He pulls out a couple of glossy brochures.

 

“Wanna see the apartments?”

 

I stand up and pull my chair over. We sit together at the table, poring over the pictures of the various properties. The late afternoon sun is casting a mellow glow over the pages. I look at Josh , my chin propped on my hand, content to hear him talk about this or that location, the facilities in one apartment compared to another, some of the policy he’s been studying in preparation for his return to the West Wing. And as he talks he gets more and more animated and I feel any residual worries begin to drop away. But it’s when he starts talking about Sam and their plans and his hopes for their life together that it all becomes clear. He’s not just living in the here and now of physical therapy and recovery and regaining his health and strength, he’s looking to the future.

 

That glimmer of light just got a lot brighter.

 

*** 

 

“You’re all packed?”

 

“Yes.”

 

You’ve got your medication?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’ve got your outpatient appointments - cardiologist, neurologist, urologist?”

 

“Yes, yes and *yes*!”

 

Exasperatedly Josh shows me the appointment cards before shoving them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

“Are you gonna follow me home to make sure I take my meds and don’t put extra salt on my food?” he asks as he cranes his neck to look out of the window for the twentieth time in five minutes. “Sam, where *are* you?”

 

“He’ll be here soon enough,” I say. I begin pulling the sheets from Josh’s unmade bed, ostensibly to get a jump on the work I need to do to get this room ready for its new patient, but really to distract myself from fussing around Josh.

 

Because today he’s leaving the hospital for good and I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad. Well, I *am* happy for him; I’m glad he’s recovered enough to go home and start his life afresh. But I’m sad that we’ll be saying goodbye and chances are I won’t see him again even though he’s promised to come visit when he has an appointment with one of his doctors. Patients always say that. When they leave the hospital they’re grateful for everything the staff have done and if they’ve become particular friends with any of them they always say they’ll call in. And sometimes they do, maybe once. But when the gratitude and euphoria of leaving hospital have subsided, all being well they put their time in hospital behind them as they get on with their life. And that’s surely going to happen with someone who has a high-powered job in the White House.

 

“At last!”

 

Josh’s voice makes me look up from dragging off pillowcases. I hope he can manage to arrange his pillows the way I always do, I start to think, because he gets so uncomfortable if they’re not done just right. Then I pull myself up sharply, reminding myself that in a few minutes Josh Lyman will cease to be my patient and will no longer be my responsibility. And now I’m starting to feel sad again.

 

Josh moves away from the window.

 

“Sam’s parking the car,” he tells me, as if his earlier exclamation hadn’t been warning enough. 

 

He begins moving around the room, opening and shutting the closet door and banging drawers as he checks he hasn’t left anything behind. He stops suddenly. When I turn and look at him he’s looking a little anxious. 

 

“It’s normal to feel excited *and* apprehensive, isn’t it?” he asks.

 

“Josh, this has been your home for the past five months. You’ve been protected ... insulated ... it’s like a little world of its own. And now you’ve got to leave and adapt to living in your own home. But you’re not alone. You’ve got your occupational therapist to call on, a counselor if you need him, not to mention Sam.”

 

“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?”

 

“You’re late,” snaps Josh as Sam walks in.

 

“Hey, hey, hey ... only five minutes.” Sam goes over to Josh and squeezes his shoulder. “Hi, Julie.”

 

“Hello, Sam.”

 

Yes, we’re on first name terms now. After that night when I walked in on them both, I’ve found out he’s nowhere near the scary guy I thought. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s kind and friendly and anyone can see he worships Josh, who all of a sudden sheds his uptight manner. He looks up at Sam with such a luminous smile that I can’t help experiencing a little stab of jealousy. Call me a hopeless case, but I’m still a little in love with that guy. But it’s tempered with a feeling of gladness that he’s so happy. Give me a few weeks and I’m sure I’ll get over him.

 

But I’ll never forget him.

 

“Julie!” Sam’s normally quiet voice is a little louder than normal, and I realize he’s had to say my name twice to bring me out of my thoughts.

 

“Sorry ... Sam ... yes, what?”

 

“I’m going to take Josh’s bags to the car and meet him down there. It’ll give you two a chance to say goodbye, but ... “ he moves towards me and holds out his hand, “I wanted to say thank you, thanks Julie ... for everything.”

 

I take his hand. He clasps it in both of his. I look into those incredible blue eyes and they’re not like cold chips of ice, which is what they used to remind me of, but now they’re warm with gratitude. 

 

“It was my pleasure. Make sure he behaves himself.”

 

He gives a mock sigh. “I’ll be getting in touch for some tips. You’re one of the few people who can handle him.”

 

“Hey! I’m still here!” Josh sounds as if he’s half laughing, half mad.

 

“Don’t we know it,” says Sam, picking up Josh’s bags. “I’ll see you downstairs. Bye, Julie, take care.”

 

“You too.”

 

And then he’s gone, leaving Josh and I looking at each other, an unusually awkward silence between us. Josh throws his arms out to the side.

 

“So ... “ he says, “this is it.”

 

I’m not sure what to do next. Shake his hand? Give him a peck on the cheek? God, I didn’t know this would be so hard, I’ve got a lump in my throat that feels like a golf ball. 

 

“Come here you!” Josh says, laughing slightly.

 

I move over to him and he grabs my hand.

 

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done, Julie,” he starts, “when I first got here ... you know how hard it was for me. I wouldn’t be sitting here like this now if you hadn’t been there. I mean thank you is so pathetic ... “

 

“Don’t! Don’t say anymore.” My eyes are filling with tears. “I’m a nurse. That’s why I’m paid to do. I’m glad I was able to help.”

 

He puts his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a gift wrapped package. “I want to give you this. It’s from Sam and me, because I doubt we’d be together now if you hadn’t talked some sense into me. Remember that day I dropped my pen?”

 

We both smile a little at that, recollecting how Josh had cursed and thrown it across the room. It had been a turning point for him. And for me, because it was the first time I’d really felt that I’d made a difference to a patient’s recovery.

 

“Josh, I can’t accept gifts,” I say as he hands me the package. “It’s hospital policy - we can’t accept gratuities of any kind.”

 

He’s got that look on his face that I call his ’politician’s face’, kind of determined, as if he knows he’s going to win an argument. 

 

“Well, put it this way. I work for the President, and even though I say it myself I do a pretty important job. The President is extremely grateful that I’m fit enough to do that job and serve at his pleasure. Therefore, if you refuse this gift, it’s kind of like refusing it from the President.”

 

I can’t really argue with that so I just shake my head in defeat and look at the tag attached to the package: “We hope this will go some way to expressing our thanks and gratitude. With love from Josh and Sam.”

 

“Well open it!” Josh says impatiently.

 

I tear off the wrapping paper, which reveals a narrow, light blue box with the name Tiffany on the lid.

 

Oh. My. God.

I open the lid, which reveals an exquisite silver bracelet.

 

“Oh, Josh,” is all I can manage at first.

 

“It's okay?” he asks with a hopeful expression on his face.

 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much.” I bend down and hug him.

 

“Hey, it’s just a little something,” he says.

 

I stand up and take it out of its box and slip it onto my wrist. I won’t wear it during work hours, of course, but I can’t resist trying it on. 

 

“It’s gorgeous.“ I twist my arm this way and that, admiring the design and the weight of the bracelet on my wrist. “And anyway, it’s me who should be thanking you all the times you listened to me moaning about Santini ...”

 

I stop, remembering Josh’s kindness when my parents split up, how he’d listened to me when I found out, the way he’d cheered me up on the bad days.

 

“... and helped me with the personal stuff,” I manage to finish before my tears finally overwhelm me.

 

“Stop it, please!” he half laughs, “or you’ll get me started!”

 

Afraid of upsetting him, I make a monumental effort to stem my tears by sniffing and blinking my eyes rapidly. After that breakthrough when he’d finally relaxed the iron will he’d exercised to keep a grip on his emotions, Josh had experienced times when he’d be overwhelmed by sadness and even anger. Nowadays he’s on a much more even keel, but there are still occasions when something can trigger an adverse reaction. I’d hate for him to leave here feeling anything but happy and confident so I manage to summon up a small grin.

 

“That’s better,” he states approvingly. “I guess I’d better go before we turn this into a meeting of our own mutual appreciation society.”

 

He leans up towards me and gives me a gently kiss on the cheek. I close my eyes momentarily, smelling the cologne that will always remind me of this man. Oh, Josh, I think, if only ... 

 

Stop it right now, I admonish myself.

 

“Bye, sweetie,” he says. “I’ll come see you when I visit the clinic.”

 

“You do that,” I tell him. “And take care.”

 

When he leaves the room it feels empty and uncharacteristically silent. I’ve been in this room many times when Josh has been elsewhere in the building, but this time it’s different, and when Josh was here there’d always be noise from the TV or music from his CD player. If not, he’d have visitors that he’d be debating politics with or laughing about some mishap that had happened in the West Wing. Sighing, I walk over to the window to see Josh speeding down towards where Sam is leaning against the hood of his parked car. Josh freewheels while he lifts his arms and punches the air with his fists. Sam laughs as Josh comes skidding to a halt in front of him, then he turns his wheelchair and looks up towards the window. He sees me and waves, before speaking to Sam who’s standing holding the passenger door open. A few minutes later Josh and his wheelchair are in the car. I see Sam settle into the driver’s seat, and I can just discern him moving towards Josh as they exchange a loving kiss. Then the car pulls away and I watch until it’s out of sight.

 

Reluctantly I tear myself away from the window and begin preparing the room for my next patient.

 

*** 

“ ‘Morning, Mr Lyman.”

 

“Good morning, John.”

 

“Do you ... er ... need me to help in any way?”

 

“No thanks, I’ll let you know if I need anything. And could I sit in the front passenger seat - it’s a little easier for me getting from my wheelchair and into the car.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

John slams the car door shut, and while he’s putting my wheelchair in the trunk I pull a file from my backpack so that I can feign undertaking some work while he drives me to the White House. It’s not that I don’t like the guy or that I’m being deliberately anti-social, it’s just that making small talk would require an effort that I just don’t feel up to right now. Not now I’m trying to get my head round the idea of walking - well, more correctly *wheeling*, I guess - into the White House on my first day back at work since I got shot. Since last night my imagination has been in overdrive: which security guard will be on the desk? Will it be a different one to the ones who’ve been manning the station on the couple of visits I’ve made recently? Will people look me in they eye? How will senior staff go? Will I feel totally inept and uninformed, despite my marathon sessions with numerous reports and briefing papers over the last couple of weeks? My thoughts are teeming with questions and concerns, but at the same time there’s a feeling of anticipation, not unlike the first time I stepped into the White House as Deputy Chief of Staff.

 

The sound of the car door opening makes me jump as John slides behind the wheel. Seeing me with my head buried in a file he goes to turn off the radio that’s playing some country and western station. Little does he know that the words on the page are like a jumble of black and white lines and squiggles that I’m not even bothering to try to make sense of. 

 

“Don’t turn it off,” I protest, despite the fact I hate that sort of music and some guy is singing about his baby leaving him and taking his dog and pickup truck with her.

 

“Okay.” 

 

He turns on the engine and the car pulls smoothly away from the apartment belonging to my friends Caroline and David. I’ve known them since Harvard, and they offered me a place to stay until I’d exchanged my now unsuitable townhouse for somewhere more wheelchair friendly. Given that Sam’s apartment building doesn’t even have an elevator - and in any case, we weren’t making any hasty moves like moving in together just yet - I jumped at the chance to escape from the rehabilitation unit. And now, after a week of becoming accustomed to the big, wide world, I’m doing the scariest thing I could imagine: choosing to enter the West Wing on my own and try to act as if nothing has changed in the last six months. Which is one of the reasons I chose to have a staff driver pick me up, rather than let Sam do it. I’ve *got* to do this thing without relying on the one person who I’d love to have by my side at this precise moment. If I can just do this, I’ll be fine.

 

Before I know it, the car stops at the gate house. John lowers the window to allow the security guard to peer in as we hold up our passes for his attention. With a nod of the head he waves us through. I’m relieved to see there aren’t too many people around as I alight from the car. John asks if I need any help into the building, and as graciously as possible I decline. I guess I’m going to be asked that question about a hundred times today, and I’m going to have to make sure my patience doesn’t start to wear thin. It’s a good thing I’ll only be here until lunchtime.

 

There’s a shallow step at the doorway of the lobby, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I jerk my wheelchair onto its back wheels to negotiate the change in level, and as I get the front wheels onto the step I throw my upper body forward slightly to carry the wheelchair forward. (KATHI - DOES THIS MAKE SENSE?) Then I’m in, and through the door; the gaze of the Marine who’s standing there flickers slightly from its normally impassive expression. I wonder, just for a second, what’s going through his mind: is he debating over offering assistance? Does he feel sorry for me? Does he wonder, momentarily, how he would feel in my situation? Or maybe he always shows the smallest of reactions when anyone comes through that door, and it’s just that I’ve become more sensitive to these things. To one side of the lobby is the machine where I swipe my security card, which bleeps to show it recognizes it - and me - as legitimate. I turn to the adjacent desk to sign in.

 

“Hi, Mr Lyman - good to see you back,” says Geoff, who is one of the more genial security guards.

 

“Thanks, it’s good to be back.”

 

He slides the book over towards me, then suddenly realizes that the desk is too high for me to sign it from my position in my wheelchair. To my dismay he gets a little flustered.

 

“Wait, I’ll bring it round,” he says, but before he can move I grab the book and pen, balancing it on my knee as I write down the date, the time of my arrival, printing my name and finally signing it. It’s not the most legible I’ve ever written, but it’ll do.

 

“Thanks, Geoff,” I manage to smile. I can see by his look that he understands that this is the way I’ll manage this little ritual from here on in.

 

“Have a good day.” His voice sails after me as I make my way from the lobby into the West Wing.

 

Okay, this is it. 

 

I push the double doors open, revealing the early morning buzz of the bullpen. Most people are already at their desks and I can feel myself tense up waiting for someone to spot me, so I decide to pre-empt them.

 

“Morning.” I give a quick nod in the general direction of my staff, seeing their heads shoot up or turn round at the sound of my voice. Some people respond verbally, others just smile. Thank God no-one feels the urge to welcome me back formally. I’d asked Donna to put the word around that I didn’t want any fuss. And speaking of my assistant, where the hell is she? 

 

I find out as soon as I get into my office, where she’s standing with her back to me placing something on my desk. I take off my overcoat and discover that by stretching my arm up as far as it will go I can still manage to hang my coat on the stand.

 

“Hey,” Donna says, turning round. She’s wearing a huge grin on her face.

“What’s up?” I ask suspiciously, dropping my backpack with a thump.

 

The grin fades a little from its Cheshire Cat proportions.

 

“ ‘Cos when you grin like that it usually means you know something I don’t about some sort of trouble I’ve gotten into,” I continue as I maneuver myself behind my desk.

 

“It was meant to be a welcoming grin, Josh, and as you’ve only been in the building for five minutes I doubt even you’ve managed to wreak any havoc in that short space of time.” The grin has *definitely* disappeared now.

 

“Oh. Well. Thanks.” I look down at my desk. “What’s this?”

 

“Coffee.”

 

“You brought me coffee? Wait a minute,” I say, “this isn’t like some weird Stepford Wives scenario where Donnatella Moss has been replaced by a robot with the mindset of a secretary from the 1960s?”

 

She looks a little uncomfortable. “I wasn’t sure ... I wasn’t sure that you’d be able to carry a mug of hot coffee from the coffee maker.”

 

Okay I think, remember this is all new to her. Take a deep breath and don’t yell. She doesn’t know I’ve been practicing this kind of stuff and that I’ve estimated that I’ll be able to push myself one handed from the coffee maker while I hold a cup in the other hand.

 

“I guess I’ll try to see if I can manage but ... “ I lift the mug and take a gulp, “I appreciate the gesture. How about if I promise to ask you when I need anything? That way you don’t have to guess.”

 

“Okay - just yell out.”

 

“Why break habit of a lifetime?” I say wryly, causing her to grin with something like relief.

 

Wow, it’s as easy as that.

 

“So, do I have an itinerary for today?” I ask, knowing that’s usually the first thing we discuss each morning.

 

“You have staff at eight, but Leo would like you to go to his office ten minutes earlier. After staff you have a briefing session with him, then you have the rest of the morning to start familiarizing yourself with those.” She nods at a pile of folders lying on my desk. There’s a large envelope lying on the top.

“What’s this?” I ask.

 

“Maybe you should open it,” she replies, not making any attempt to go back to her desk. I get the impression she wants to see my reaction when I see whatever it is.

 

I eye it suspiciously as I pick it up and tear open the flap. Sam would take his silver paperknife and cut it open carefully, but I’m always too impatient to be so methodical. Inside the envelope is something made out stiff cardboard. I slide it out and see that it’s a large greetings card, but not one of the corny, Hallmark variety. On the front is a drawing of Zonker Harris, the eternal hippy from the Doonesbury comic strip. He’s making a peace sign and there’s a speech bubble coming out of his mouth: “Welcome back, dude!” I open up the card, and everyone in the West Wing has signed it, even the President. I quickly scan the names and messages, some humorous, some simple, some neatly written, some scrawled until eventually I’m searching for one name, and one name only. There it is, in the corner. He’s resisted the temptation to write something too revealing, too emotional, but I love it just the same. “There’s a space in the Oval that needs filling. See you there. Sam.” He’s drawn the tiniest of hearts next to it, though.

 

“Do you like it?”

 

I look up to see Donna staring at me anxiously. I’m so overwhelmed by the gesture of my colleagues and friends that I’ve forgotten she’s there.

 

“I love it. It’s great.” I pick up my coffee mug and a take a large gulp that only just makes it around the lump in my throat.

 

She lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God. We knew you didn’t want anyone to make a big deal out of you coming back to work, but so many people said they wanted to do *something*. But getting something unique like this was Sam’s idea.”

 

I should have known.

 

“Did you say ‘unique’?” I ask incredulously.

 

“Yeah. Look” She leans over the desk and points at the signature at the bottom of the drawing: GB Trudeau. “It’ an original. CJ called in a favor with an editor who knows him pretty well. It’s a collectors item, especially with the President’s signature. You’ll need to keep it safe.”

 

“I’m going to get it framed,” I exclaim. I open it up again and begin reading the messages more carefully, laughing and shaking my head at some of them. Donna leaves me to it, and for the next half hour or so I spend time looking at a report on farm subsidies in the mid-West. I’m interrupted by Donna sticking her head round the door, rapping on it sharply and telling me that if I don’t look sharp I’m going to be late meeting up with Leo prior to staff. I grab a pen and some papers that Donna tells me I’ll need and manage to negotiate my way to his office without either dropping anything or causing anyone severe injury. And in the narrow corridors of the West Wing that’s nothing short of a miracle. It’s weird, though, being somewhere so busy, so alive after living in the insulated atmosphere of the hospital for so long. I can hardly believe I’m back, and my heart’s beating wildly at the thought of sitting in the Oval Office again. God, what if I can’t do this any more?

 

Stopping outside the outer office where Margaret holds sway, I take a deep breath before entering. Margaret is sitting at her computer, intent as her fingers tap lightly on the keyboard. She turns her head, her always sleek hair swinging back with the motion. She looks at me with that trademark deadpan stare.

 

“Can I go in?” I ask. I’m deliberately treating the moment as if I’ve never been away from the place, acting as if I’d asked the self same question a dozen times twenty-four hours earlier as I was always wont to do.

 

“Sure.”

 

I get the impression she wants to say something, but she just gives me a small smile. I go to turn the handle on the door to Leo’s office when I’m suddenly aware that Margaret has risen slightly from her chair, then quickly sat down again.

 

“It’s okay, I can manage the door,” I smile.

 

“Ah,” she says.

 

I rest my hand on the door handle. “Did you want to say something?” 

 

“That’s a nice suit,” she blurts out. “Is it new?”

 

“Uh ... yeah, as a matter of fact it is. I thought first day back, new suit, you know?” I move away from the door so I’m facing her desk full on. “That’s not what you wanted to say is it? Look, I know I told Donna to tell people to treat this like any other day, but if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

 

I’ve never found Margaret the easiest person to talk to. Sometimes she comes a little bit out of left field, and I don’t have the easy banter with her like I do with other people. And hugely competent assistant that she is, even Leo finds her a little strange sometimes. But there’s something more going on here and I need to get past it.

 

“I’m really glad your back Josh. I mean *really* glad. We all are.” She shrugs. “And that’s all I wanted to say, even though I know you don’t want any of that stuff.”

 

I don’t say anything for a few seconds as it sinks in that someone saying something so genuine, so sincere hasn’t made me squirm with embarrassment or burst into tears. The fact is I’d put an embargo on welcome back speeches because I didn’t trust my own emotions. I was frightened I would have gotten either choked up or blown my stack as some sort of a defense mechanism. But this little episode has shown me it doesn’t need to be that way.

 

“Thanks, Margaret.” There’s an awkward little silence. “I’d better err ... “ I gesture with my thumb towards Leo’s office.

 

“Yeah.” She smiles and turns her attention back to her typing as I make my way back to the door.

 

***

 

I’m no sooner in his office when Leo jumps up from his chair and walks round his desk.

 

“Josh! Welcome back, kid.” 

 

He grabs my hand, then impulsively leans down and gives me a quick hug. I’m a little taken aback - hugging other guys is most definitely *not* Leo’s thing.

 

“Yeah, thanks.” All of a sudden I’m a little breathless.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding anxious.

 

“Leo, do me a favor, will you? Don’t keep asking me that?”

 

He raises his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry, Josh. I don’t mind admitting I’m a little unsure of myself here. I know your doctors say you’re ready to come back, but you’ve been through a helluva time. How do I know you’re really well enough?”

 

“Because I’ll tell you if I’m not,” I say quietly. “But right now I just want to do my job. I can do this, Leo, but not if you’re all watching me like a hawk waiting for me to have some kind of relapse.”

 

He nods his head and there’s a tacit agreement that the subject’s closed. He walks towards the door that connects with the Oval.

 

“Come on, he wants to see you before staff.”

 

Stifling a sigh I follow my boss into the President’s inner sanctum. I’d guessed this was why Leo had asked me to show up before the rest of the senior staff, but I don’t know which is worse: the President formally welcoming me back in front of all my friends or singling me out for special attention by finding a slot for me in his schedule. I just hope we can get it out of the way without the President getting too effusive. But when Leo and I position ourselves in front of his desk he doesn’t launch into some carefully worded speech. He just stands there for a second, smiling, before walking round to shake hands.

 

“How does it feel, Josh? Happy to be back?” he asks quietly.

 

“You bet, Mr President. It’s been a long time.”

 

“Too long,” he agrees. “The rest of the team have held things together, but I can’t pretend it’s been easy. You’ve a lot of catching up to do and even more new priorities that we haven't even touched on yet. But you’ve got to promise me that you won’t overdo it.”

 

“Yes, sir,” I concede, but I know my face is telling another story. How can I do my job if everyone’s going to treat me like an invalid?

 

“Mr President,” Leo interjects, “I know Josh appreciates your concern and he recognizes that he needs to take things carefully at first ... “

 

I start to open my mouth but Leo gives me a ‘Shut up and let me handle this’ look.

 

“ ... but we’ve agreed that we’ll leave it up to him to let us know if he has any problems, right Josh?”

 

“Right,” I say.

 

President Bartlet claps a hand on my shoulder. “Then let’s get to work. Leo, tell the rest of them to get in here and to stop annoying Mrs Landingham and the rest of the secretarial staff.”

 

I maneuver my wheelchair to the end of one of the sofas so that I’m facing the chair the President sits in. One by one the senior staff comes in, CJ first. She bends down to speak to me quietly before she takes her place on the sofa nearest to me.

 

“Hi, honey,” she says as she squeezes my hand briefly.

 

Next is Toby. He’s turning his head and muttering over his shoulder, slapping his hand for emphasis against the sheaf of papers he’s holding. He sits down then gives me a small grin.

 

“Don’t think you can take advantage of my good nature, but it’s good to see you back,” he mutters.

 

“You might want to revise that in a few hours after I’ve seen what damage you and Sam have managed to do in my absence,” I parry.

 

And speaking of Sam ... 

 

He comes in last and not for the first time it registers how heart stoppingly handsome he is. He called in to see me last night and after a long chat we made a pact that even though we’d come out, that for the time being at least we wouldn’t make our relationship a ‘thing’ during work hours. So just like the last couple of years that meant no touching, no endearments and no gazing at one another. Unfortunately we seem to have broken that last rule already, as Sam’s not looking at anyone else in the room apart from me, the blue of his eyes searing through me so that I swear my heart has jumped in response. He brushes close to me.

 

“Hey.” Sam’s voice is soft, and to anyone else the meaning is probably totally innocuous, but I can detect the intimacy. I flash him a brief smile as he flops down at the end of the sofa nearest to the President who shuffles his papers preparatory to opening the meeting.

 

“I’m sure you’d all like to join me in welcoming Josh back.”

 

There’s a murmured agreement, and with that the day’s proceedings begin.

 

Fifteen minutes later, and the sheer pace of these meetings is all coming back to me. Dear God, although I’ve had my head buried in briefing papers for the last two weeks I’m barely managing to keep up. The amount of information and dialogue that is bouncing between the people in the room is phenomenal. Wishing I felt informed enough to open my mouth I listen to the debate on tax reform that’s going on between Leo and Toby. I glance over at Sam and I can see him looking at me with an anxious little frown, and it crosses my mind that maybe I look even *more* anxious and he’s expecting me to have some sort of episode right here in the Oval. Giving up on trying to understand the merits of a progressive versus flat tax I bend my head over my papers. I can’t bear to see Sam looking at me like that, and I’m also starting to worry that I’ve lost my touch. Maybe six months away from this job is just too much. Trying to push the thought to the back of my mind, I’m dimly aware that the subject under discussion has made one of its lightning changes. Get a grip, I tell myself.

 

“Shawcross tells me that he’s starting to hear rumblings from the air industry. If we can’t get their buy in, this is going to be one difficult bill to pass.” 

 

Leo’s statement makes me jerk my head up. The new transportation bill is something I *can* make an informed comment on. Because it’s very much in the embryonic stage, I’m as up to speed on it as anybody else in the room, and the potential difficulties is something I’ve been mulling over for the last couple of days. I open my mouth to speak, but Toby beats me to it.

 

“We’re talking about an integrated transport policy here, not just air travel. We can’t let one sector hold us to ransom over this.”

 

I try to catch Leo’s eye but now Sam’s putting in his two cents worth.

 

“Rail transportation is more environmentally sound than road or air - shouldn’t that be helping to inform the arguments?”

 

Six months ago I would have just barreled in there with my position, but now I’m so hesitant and scared of saying something monumentally stupid that I clamp my mouth shut and give up.

 

“I think I’d like to hear what Josh has got to say on the subject.” The President’s voice cuts through Toby’s next comment. In fact, he only got as far as “Sam ... “

 

Everyone’s eyes swivel towards me expectantly. I clear my throat nervously.

 

“Sir?”

 

The President removes his glasses and raises his eyebrows at me. I think he’s trying to be encouraging.

 

“Well, I’ve been giving some thought to this, and ... “ I look over at Sam and see his mouth twitch into the smallest of grins, “and I’ve scoped out a strategy that involves all the key stakeholders.”

 

Well, at least no-one’s sniggered so far, so I tell them about the senators who represent states with interests in the different sectors of transportation, members of Congress who have more of an environmentalist's view and who would most likely be lobbying for this or that organization, my proposition gathering momentum as I continue. Eventually I stop to draw breath.

 

“Does anyone have any questions?” I ask.

 

“Only one,” pipes up CJ. “You’ve only been back an hour - what are you going to do for the rest of the day? Broker world peace?”

 

“That’s two questions,” I retort, but in actual fact I’m thankful at least one person isn’t treating me with kid gloves.

 

“Now, now kids, play nicely.” The President breaks into our sparring, and even though his tone is mild we know better than to continue. “Josh, I’d like you to take the lead on this.”

 

President Bartlet looks at me over his glasses, waiting for a response.

 

“Thank you sir.” I manage to sound as if this is no more than I would expect after the work I’ve already put into this enterprise, but mentally I’m doing a lap of honor through the West Wing. Sam makes no attempt to conceal his own feelings, his face glowing with loving pride. 

 

The President nods. “Okay, what’s next?”

 

***

 

It’s noon now and sitting in my office I reflect on two important lessons I’ve learnt this morning.

 

The first is I now know the President still has the confidence and trust in me to give me such an important assignment as the transportation bill.

 

And the second?

 

It’s entirely possible for me to negotiate the distance between the coffee machine and my office with a mug of coffee in my hand.

 

***

 

I’ve been standing here for almost five minutes now watching Josh work. He’s so engrossed he hasn’t even noticed me as he reads with fierce concentration, occasionally stopping to scribble some notes in the margin of whatever it is he’s studying. My guess is that he’s already started on the transportation bill. I can tell because he’s got that enthused air about him that he always gets when he embarks on a new project. On top of which, he’s shed his jacket, his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is looking a touch wild. In other words he’s back where he belongs, doing what he does best.

 

And it’s a beautiful sight.

 

I shift my position slightly as I’m leaning against the door jamb, which causes Josh to look up. His face splits into a grin and his eyes have a spark to them that enhances their deep brown hue. Something surges inside me, a mixture of love, desire, happiness ... so many emotions holding me in thrall that I step into the room and push the door shut almost violently. I cross the few short feet across Josh’s office, stepping behind his desk and leaning against it so that I’m facing him. And now my hand is pressed against his face as Josh closes his eyes and draws in a sharp breath.

 

“Sam, we said we wouldn’t ... not here ... “ he murmurs, but the tone of his voice tells me his protestations aren’t wholehearted.

 

“Indulge me,” I whisper as I bend my head towards him.

 

He doesn’t demur as my mouth touches his. Josh’s lips are soft and as they part slightly I know his resolve has totally dissipated, at least for today. I slide my tongue against his, my breathing quickening in time with Josh’s. The fingers of my other hand find themselves tangled in his curls and I gasp as Josh’s hand grips my thigh. We explore each other hungrily, needily, joyously. Eventually we relinquish the kiss, touching foreheads as we wait for our ardor to subside. I draw back, scrutinizing Josh, seeing the contented look on his face, the way the pale, wintry sun draws out the auburn in his hair. At this point in time everything feels just right, making me realize how off kilter this place and the people in it have seemed since that warm summer’s night when everything shifted from normality to chaos. The West Wing itself has felt incomplete, as if some sort of spark has been missing. But now it’s back, and in that uncanny way that the subconscious sometimes provides an almost mystical way of making sense of things, a word I haven’t thought of since my high school Latin class materializes in my mind.

 

“Redivivus.”

 

It’s not until Josh gives a slight uncomprehending laugh and says “What?” that I realize I’ve spoken out loud.

 

“Redivivus. It’s Latin, it means ’come back to life’,” I explain. “Today, now you’re back, it’s as if this place has come back to life.”

 

Josh takes both my hands in his, briefly raising them to his lips.

 

“That’s beautiful,” he declares. “But I think it applies to a whole lot more than that, don’t you?”

 

I nod. There’s no need for Josh to elaborate so for a little while we sit in silence, just enjoying each other and our shared understanding.

 

Me, Josh, us ... it’s all a case of come back to life.

THE END


End file.
